


Devil's Hour

by exarite



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Consensual Somnophilia, M/M, Riddle Era, Slytherin Harry Potter, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 14:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18143507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exarite/pseuds/exarite
Summary: Harry traveled back to Riddle's time with the intention to kill him, but it's been months and he's done nothing.Instead, night after night, Tom visits him in his bed. Harry lets him.





	Devil's Hour

**Author's Note:**

> ty to Caty for the beta <3

From one breath to another, Harry wakes. Sleep clings him to him like a lover, leaving his eyes heavy and his limbs lax and boneless against his bed. He breathes, his chest expanding where it's pressed against his sheets. His heart pumps against his ribs, slow and even, and when he hears the rustle of his bed hangings moving to the side, it picks up, loud and revealing.

 _This is the last time_ , he promises himself.

His bed dips to the side, the hangings closing behind the intruder. A warm hand touches the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. It moves to touch his face, tracing the curve of his cheekbone, the jut of his jaw. Harry doesn't open his eyes, doesn't move. Doesn't do anything to signal how he's very much awake.

The hand draws away only to slide down to Harry's thick green blanket, grasping it before pulling it down. The surprised hitch of breath almost cracks Harry's façade of sleep and he has to press his face into his pillow to hide his expression.

It takes a lot to surprise Tom Riddle.

"How naughty," Tom murmurs, appreciative, his voice rough. He touches the bare skin of Harry's back with one hand, hesitant at first before his fingers spread and splay. His next touch holds no qualms, greedy now as his hands run up Harry's spine, exploring the flex of muscle, the dip, the spread of his shoulders. Night after night, he reacquaints himself with Harry's body, as if it's still undiscovered country. Night after night, Harry lets him.

Tom slings a leg over his waist, settling down on the top of Harry's thighs. It gives him more room to touch, his fingers leaving a heated trail as they explore the skin bare to him. Harry wonders if come morning, his back will hold the evidence of Tom's touch, exposing them both for the liars they are.

Tom leans in and presses a close-mouthed kiss to the top of Harry's spine. Harry shivers, his fingers digging into his sheets. His back arches as Tom moves down, his mouth hot and wet. Harry's own is open, mouthing at his pillow as he tries to keep his soft sounds of pleasure locked in his throat.

Then Tom's mouth reaches the dip of his spine, his tongue darting out to lick at the sweat, and Harry can't help but moan. Tom stops, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut. He wonders if this time, Tom will call him out. If this time, the farce they keep up night after night will finally end.

But just as Harry will only let Tom have him like this under the cover of the night, Tom too will only allow himself this tenderness, this weakness, when no one else can see.

Tom makes no sign of having heard Harry's damning moan. He only pulls away, moving down, his fingers hooking into Harry's boxers. Harry lifts his hips, just a bit, and Tom pulls them off. He throws them to the side for Harry to find in the morning and reaches down to cup one of Harry's cheeks, squeezing, spreading them to the side to expose Harry's hole.

Harry swallows, his throat dry now as Tom's thumb rubs at his entrance, testing its give. Tom moves back and Harry hears the soft murmur of spells, a Silencing Spell one of them, before Tom's fingers come back slick.

Harry hides his face in his pillow as Tom slips his finger inside, opening him up. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, afraid that if he opens them, Tom will disappear into mid-air. He shouldn't want this. He _doesn't_ want this. (In the morning, maybe Harry will believe it.)

Tom's hands on him are tender. Reverent. They linger on Harry's skin, greedy and worshipful, and Harry can't reconcile them with the same hands that murdered his parents. The same hands that tried to murder him.

Maybe because they aren't. Not yet, at least. Maybe not ever, he'd think, if he didn't know that Voldemort was already a name chosen by this Tom Riddle, his Knights of Walpurgis the mustard seed that will eventually become his Death Eaters. Maybe Harry would feel less shame if he didn't know that Myrtle was already long dead, undeniable evidence of Tom's irredeemable nature.

Tom pulls his fingers away, settling one hand by Harry's head to prop himself up, the other reaching down to pull himself out. The head of his cock brushes against Harry's entrance, pressing in. Harry tenses, and Tom pauses. He smooths a hand up Harry's back, soothing if it weren't for the scratch of his nails. His hand comes up to rest against the back of Harry's neck, and he squeezes, the weight of it simultaneously threatening and comforting.

Harry settles, his body lax.

Tom pushes in, silent save for a strained exhale, and Harry's mouth falls open. Tom is thick and long, the girth of him spreading Harry open so well. He rocks out and then back in, deeper this time, and Harry's eyes squeeze, his face pinching as he struggles to remain quiet.

Tom's hands are restless. They roam up and down his body, squeezing, claiming, even as he drives inside Harry with slow, rolling thrusts. A low guttural noise escapes between the two of them, and it takes a moment for Harry to realize it's him. He bites down on the next one, his fingers curling helplessly around his pillow. This is why Harry sleeps on his front now, all so he can bury his moans into his pillow and better hide his expressions. Tom has never tried to turn him onto his back, and Harry thinks it's because they both know it'll ruin it.

Tom leans over him, his body bowed, his nails digging into Harry's waist. Hard enough to hurt, but never hard enough to bruise. There'll be no proof tomorrow that Harry will have to hide. No marks that Harry will press down on to remind himself of this, even as he and Tom avoid eyes.

Harry swallows down a cry as Tom's hands tilt Harry's hips. It changes the angle and his next thrust is solid and bright over Harry's prostate. He's merciless now, the head of his cock driving over it with every stroke until Harry is trembling at the hot pleasure shooting up his spine. Every thrust jolts Harry's cock against his Slytherin sheets until he's leaking, the proof of his weakness come morning, and he can't help it, he can't stop the moans from slipping past his lips into the night air.

And still, Tom gives no sign that he's aware. Tom fucks into him, his breathing harsh as he presses his mouth against Harry's neck. He doesn't kiss, doesn't suck, but tomorrow, Harry will still feel his mouth as if it's branded onto his skin.

Tom slips his hand in between Harry and the bed, and Harry lets out a soft sob at the brush of his hand against his straining cock. It takes almost nothing, just the tight grip of Tom around him, a rough twist over the head before Harry is spilling into Tom's hand and panting loudly into the silence of the night.

Tom's thrusts turn frantic, a low groan escaping him, and Harry's ass tightens. Tom's dick twitches inside him, a burst of warmth and wetness filling him, and Harry whimpers as Tom continues to thrust, slow and shallow accompanied by a low hiss of pleasure.

Finally, Tom pulls out. Harry feels himself leak but Tom's fingers press against his hole. Harry spreads his legs, his lips parting, a low breath leaving his lips as Tom fingers his come back into Harry's ass. He shivers, his lower back aching. Neither of them says anything, both silent in the aftermath.

Tiredness drags at him once more, and by the time Tom leaves Harry's bed to slip back into his own, Harry is already half-asleep again.

He buries his face in his pillow and tries not scream. No more. _No more._

There was just something about the night, the cover of darkness it held. He remembers the Muggle superstitions that claimed three in the morning was the Devil's Hour, the time when demons and ghosts appeared and were at their most powerful. Maybe that's why every night, at three in the morning and without fail, Tom Riddle shows up in his bed. Maybe that's why Harry lets him.

*

There's nothing of yesterday but the ache between his legs and the memory of Tom's hands on him. And still, Harry feels irrevocably owned. He used to be afraid that everyone would look at him and know. That there would be a Dark Mark hanging over his head, proclaiming that Harry let his greatest enemy—or the younger version of him, at least—fuck him night after night.

Harry came to Riddle's time with the intention to kill him. It's been months, and Harry has done nothing.

The Hat resorted him into Slytherin, and Harry's had plenty of chances to murder Riddle in his sleep. And yet, all he's done is let Riddle into his bed. Harry clenches his fists and buries his face into his pillow, angry at himself.

He can't help it. He doesn't know if it's the remnants of the Horcrux inside of him, or something else entirely, but Harry feels helplessly drawn to this version of Voldemort. The first few times Riddle had touched him under the guise of Harry's sleep, Harry had been wracked with guilt.

He had hated himself even as he arched into Tom's hands and fucked himself onto Tom's cock. He had almost cried with every stroke of Tom's hands against his skin, every press of his lips against Harry's neck and back.  But none of that had stopped him. None of that had been enough for Harry to stop pretending, to open his eyes, turn around and tell Tom to stop.

It isn't love that stalls Harry's hand. It's worse. It's a bottomless need that only Tom's touch can sate. He wants Tom so badly that Harry feels as if he's starving for him, as if his very soul is aching for the other boy, and that scares and disgusts him to an equal degree.

Tonight, Harry feebly decides. Tonight is the night he kills Tom Riddle.

He doesn't sleep. He only waits, his hand under his pillow gripping tightly onto his wand, his body tight in anticipation.

Tom doesn't do anything to announce himself, and yet when he stands outside Harry's bed, Harry feels him anyway.

His curtains part, Tom slipping in. His bed dips to the side and Tom closes it behind him, silent and still as he stares down at Harry. Harry swallows.

Then, a tentative touch at his hip and Tom is turning him to lie on his back. Harry stiffens, his grip loosening around his wand. They've never done it like this before.

He resists, but Tom is insistent and Harry reluctantly follows until he's flat on his back. He feels oddly vulnerable like this, his front exposed to Tom, his hard cock evident in his trousers. His face open even under the cover of night.

Harry's jaw tightens, and he forces it to relax.

Tom leans in, his breath warm against Harry's face. He smells like toothpaste. Tom ducks his head and mouths against Harry's jaw, wet and hot. A muscle along his jaw twitches against Tom's mouth and Harry's breath stutters.

He can feel Tom smile against his neck and Harry's heart races.

Tom pulls away only to push Harry's trousers down and expose his cock. He slips his hand in between them and grasps it, his palm dry. His grip is tight, but the angle is off and soon, Harry finds his hips moving without his permission, desperate for more.

Tom doesn't give it to him. He seems almost content to just stroke Harry's cock and keep him on the edge. Despite himself, a soft whine escapes Harry's throat, his cock throbbing in need. He squeezes his eyes closed, his face hot, but that does nothing to stop him from feeling Tom's eyes on his face, heavy and just as greedy as his hands.

Tom leans in, his grip tightening, squeezing painfully, and Harry grunts.

"I know you're awake," Tom says, and Harry's eyes shoot open.

Their gazes meet, Tom's face close enough to his that even without his glasses, Harry can see. His eyes are dark, a burgundy that makes Harry's stomach twist. They aren't the red of Lord Voldemort, but they're so close to it that Harry can't forget, not even for a second. There's a vicious satisfaction in them that makes Harry's stomach twist for a completely different reason, his cock throbbing in Tom's hand.

"Am I?" Harry replies, just to be stubborn, and Tom's eyes flash. He strokes the head of Harry's cock, a twist to his grip that sends Harry gasping, his thighs straining underneath Tom.

Tom sits back on his thighs and lets go of Harry's dick. Irritation cuts across his lips and his brow.

"I'm tired of playing, Evans," he says and Harry's lips thin. "It's not fun anymore."

"Is that what this is?" he asks and Tom scowls at him.

"You tell me. I don't understand why you're being like this. We're good together, can't you see?"

"I do," Harry says roughly, his voice cracking, and pleasure immediately blooms on Tom's expression at Harry's voiced admission. "But I don't want this."

"Is it because I don't love you?" Tom asks, annoyed, and Harry can't help but laugh at that in surprised disbelief. Tom gives him a look, petulant almost. He looks and sounds nothing like a dark wizard on the verge of becoming a Dark Lord, more like the boy he really is.

"Harry," Tom says, and the sound of his name is shocking. It's different from Evans. That's not his name, it's his mother's. "I would give you _everything_. I would lay the world at your feet if that's what you wanted."

"It isn't," Harry hisses. "That's what _you_ want."

"I don't know if that's love," Tom continues, voice tight. He says nothing more, but Harry hears it anyway in his silence. _It could be. It's close. Isn't it good enough?_

Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Harry has little to no reference for romantic love, just the barest whispers of the familial kind from those long dead and yet to die, and Harry can't tell Tom whether or not it is.

He sits up, reaching out. Gently, far too gently than what Tom deserves, he traces Tom's elegant cheekbones. He touches his jaw, his thin lips, the smooth arch of his brows, and Tom lets him, silent and watchful. Harry feels his heart waver. He pulls back, his eyes bright.

He doesn't know if it's love, but he knows it's what he wants.

For tonight, at least.

He pulls Tom into a kiss, and he ignores the ache in his chest, the blur of his vision.

 _This is the last time_ , he promises himself.

**Author's Note:**

> i've always wanted to write a timetravel fic, but i feel like we have too much of it 😂 ugh i do love the dynamic though of a love-starved, guilt-ridden harry faced with handsome, charming, obsessive tom riddle 😩😩 sigh.
> 
> anyway. i'm on [tumblr!!](exarite.tumblr.com)


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